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    Natalie's Curse: Natalie Fitzsimons, Attorney at Law, #4
    Natalie's Curse: Natalie Fitzsimons, Attorney at Law, #4
    Natalie's Curse: Natalie Fitzsimons, Attorney at Law, #4
    Ebook84 pages46 minutes

    Natalie's Curse: Natalie Fitzsimons, Attorney at Law, #4

    By Alden S Bauers

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    About this ebook

    The aftermath of the Deaver case continues to reverberate through attorney Natalie Fitzsimons' life. She finds herself the target of a lawsuit and confronted with a life-changing decision. When one of the plaintiffs caresses her cheek and whispers "serpents," Natalie begins having terrifying nightmares and exhibiting strange symptoms. Her husband and an old nemesis must team up to save Natalie's skin.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherAlden Bauers
    Release dateSep 5, 2020
    ISBN9781393302995
    Natalie's Curse: Natalie Fitzsimons, Attorney at Law, #4
    Author

    Alden S Bauers

    Alden S Bauers was born and raised on Long Island. He currently resides in Spartanburg, South Carolina where he works as a computer technician. He's married and has two young children. When he's not writing or spending time with his family, Alden enjoys modeling the Pennsylvania Railroad in N Scale and driving his 1965 Chevy Corvair

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      Book preview

      Natalie's Curse - Alden S Bauers

      Acknowledgments

      Iwould like to thank the following people for helping make this book possible. First and foremost are KG McAbee, Steven A. Gentry, and CH Babb, whose editing, insights, and tough love were invaluable.

      Prologue

      Natalie Fitzsimons snuggled into husband Marty’s arms. It had been a long Saturday filled with house cleaning, yard work, and weekly shopping.

      Goodnight, my love.

      Marty squeezed her.

      Goodnight.

      Natalie rested her head on the pillow and felt herself drifting down into a restful sleep.

      Chirp!

      Her eyes shot open.

      Why do they always do it in the middle of the night?

      Marty swung out of bed, cursing under his breath.

      A moment later, Natalie heard the clatter of a step ladder being set up.

      Chirp!

      She heard Marty grumbling from the kitchen.

      Chirp!

      Shut the fuck up you god damn piece of shit!

      Natalie giggled.

      Marty reentered the room and tossed a nine-volt battery onto his nightstand.

      Thank you, sweetie.

      No problem.

      We’ll pick up more batteries on the way back from church tomorrow and do the rest of them.

      Sounds good, hon. Sleep well.

      You too.

      One

      Natalie slouched in the passenger seat of her Marty’s Lemonwood Yellow ’65 Corvair, clad in her Sunday best. It was a glorious July day. The top was down and the wind tossed her fiery auburn hair as the couple made their way home from mass.

      Great homily, wasn’t it?

      Marty was fooling with radio, attempting to pick up the Yankee game.

      Huh? Oh, yeah, I guess.

      Natalie sighed.

      You weren’t even paying attention, were you?

      Marty had to choose his words carefully. He had indeed been paying attention; he just thought it was a load of bullshit. Up until recently, he and Natalie had been CEO Catholics. CEO of course standing for Christmas and Easter Only. Then Natalie handled the Deaver case and got the itch to return to church.

      Well, Marty?

      Marty was about to flick the turn signal stalk and turn into their driveway when he spotted an out.

      Who’s that on our porch?

      Natalie saw a young man standing at their front door.

      I don’t know.

      Mormon or Jehova?

      Marty!

      Marty brought the car to a stop and the young man approached. He was dressed in a tee-shirt reading Lazy Lobster Café, Cataloosa Island, SC.

      Can I help you, pal?

      Depends, one of you Natalie Fitzsimons?

      Natalie stepped out of the car.

      I’m her.

      The young man produced a stack of folded papers.

      Oh good, these are for you. You’re served.

      Natalie took the paper and opened them up. The process server slinked away. Marty could see her lips moving as she skimmed the document.

      I’m being sued for wrongful death.

      Marty cocked an eyebrow.

      You didn’t kill anybody.

      It’s the family of Samantha Collins, the first victim in the Deaver case. I deposed her and they’re claiming my deposition drove her to suicide.

      Seriously?

      Yup. The firm will give me a lawyer, and we’ll get it thrown out.

      Need I point out the obvious? You are a lawyer.

      Oh, Marty. There’s an adage, a lawyer who represents herself has a fool for a client. Besides, it’s against firm policy.

      She saw the look of dread on his face.

      Don’t worry, this happens all the time. It’s what we have malpractice insurance for.

      Marty led her into the house.

      IT WAS ABOUT TEN TO seven and a rather sultry evening. Marty was piloting the Corvair up Pinecroft Road. Mass wasn’t Marty and Natalie’s only Sunday obligation. Dinner with her parents was always a formal affair.

      The sun was low in the sky and the shadows were long as Marty pulled into the

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